


Out to Lunch

by hit_the_books



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Case Fic, F/M, First Dates, First Kiss, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Nervous Dean, Non-Consensual Touching, Season/Series 01, Sibling Incest, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:00:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6375757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a shapeshifter case in New York City, Sam starts to realize that there's something going on between Dean and him. But it takes a case out in Illinois for the truth to finally spill out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out to Lunch

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [balthazars-muse's 30 First Dates with Sam Winchester](http://balthazars-muse.tumblr.com/post/140292415100/30-first-dates-with-sam-winchester).
> 
> Find the fic on [Tumblr here.](http://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/post/141800362235/out-to-lunch)

The glitz that surrounds Sam is of a magnitude he rarely rubs shoulders with. Let alone wines and dines with, but here he is. In the foyer of the Ritz-Carlton on the outskirts of Central Park, New York City. Waiting for Francesca Robins to come down from her room and join him for a lunch date.

No one is eying Sam with suspicion, the pale gray suit, white dress shirt, black leather shoes and belt he’s wearing costing the limit of one gold card that had been sacrificed up to the job. Dean hadn’t been happy and Sam had pointed out he wasn’t either, but it had to be done. Had to be if they were going to make any headway on the case.

The cufflinks securing the sleeves of Sam’s shirt had been John’s. Silver and ornate. A wedding gift from their mother. Nerves showing a little, Sam can’t stop rolling the links between his fingers as he sits and waits. Playing the part of a nervous 22 year old actor is suiting him better than he thought it would.

Dean had insisted that he wear them. It’d been kind of sweet. But his brother had frowned at his oil slicked hair, taming back his cowlicks and the pair of black framed glasses on his face.

Shapely shadow coming into view, Sam looks up and smiles warmly at Francesca Robins. Heiress. Movie investor. Philanthropist. Widowed twice. Potential shapeshifter. Standing up so that he can reach out and kiss the offered hand, Sam can see how Francesca turns heads wherever she goes. Full auburn curls trailing down her back. Stunning blue eyes. Light summer dress hugging in all the right places, skirt billowing out around her thighs and knees. Just don’t ask Sam what the label is.

“I’ve booked us a table at Aquavit,” Francesca says without prompting, old money New England accent crisp and clear. “They’re very picky about the press there, shouldn’t have any bother in corner I asked them to set aside for us.”

Francesca leads the way out of the hotel and to the sidewalk, a private car already waiting for them. The driver holds the door open for Francesca and then walks around with Sam to the other side of the Bentley. It feel feels strange having a car door opened for him and Sam resists the urge to open it himself.

Over on her side of the car, Francesca busies herself with a bottle of champagne and Sam uses the distraction to send a quick text to Dean to let them know where they are heading. The cork popping out sends Sam reaching behind himself for the Taurus Model 92 he has slid in the back of his dress slacks, but he manages to stop himself in time. Subconsciously, he pats over the silver dagger hidden inside his suit jacket.

“Here,” Francesca offers Sam a glass of champagne and he takes it, but the last thing he wanted to be doing was drinking alcohol around this woman or eating.

But after she had made a pass at Sam during a stakeout of a Manhattan art gallery, Dean had proposed they use this to their advantage. Or at least find out if Francesca was the one behind the trail of bodies that had led them to the finer things in life. Current running theory was shapeshifter, on account of having found a mouldering body that could very well be Francesa’s, stuffed in the basement of the building where she had an apartment. No way did Sam want to be sat in a car with a shapeshifter, regardless of whether the car was a Bentley and had champagne on ice in it.

Sam was playing at being a young aspiring actor who’d had just been cast as an understudy to a far more famous actor for a show on Broadway. Francesca hadn’t asked for anything more in-depth than that, like the name of the play.

Normally they’d just kill the monster and have it over with, but normally their monsters aren’t so well connected and constantly surrounded by people. Sam needed to get Francesca alone, like she always did to her victims. They hadn’t figured out why she was killing, but the glimpse of her eyes in security footage from the gallery had told Dean and Sam all they needed to know.

“You’re not drinking,” states Francesca.

“Sorry, I don’t normally drink on an empty stomach,” Sam replies lamely, wondering how much further they had to go to get to their little lunch date. All of the victims they had tied to her had gone out with her just like this, but had never made it home from the meal.

Sliding closer to him on the back seat, eyes deep and dark with promises, Francesca pulls Sam’s glass holding hand towards his mouth. Gently, Francesca tips the sweet, tangy fizzing liquid between Sam’s parted lips and down his throat. Sam feels like a deer frozen in headlights, the predatory poise of Francesca shutting down his normal hunter responses.

Before he knows what’s happening, the shapeshifter is straddling his lap and licking into his mouth. His traitorous body can’t help responding and Sam holds onto her hips, pulling her down against him and letting Francesca fuck into his mouth. Her hands trail down and find his—

A sudden yelp from Francesca and her scrambling off of Sam is what breaks her hold over him. Sam looks over as Francesca rubs at some of her fingers. _The cufflinks_ , Sam thinks to himself.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, trying to make his concern sound genuine.

“Yes, sorry, you just caught me with something.” The Bentley begins to slow. “Well, we’re here.”

Sam waits for his door to be opened, glad that he has confirmation that Francesca is indeed a shapeshifter.

***

Looking at the menu, Sam has no idea what he is looking at. The restaurant is minimalist in decor and the menu is a modern take on classic Norwegian dishes, or so Francesca has described it to Sam. There are no security cameras, Sam notes as he discreetly glances around the restaurant. In the end he decides it’s easier and more convincing to let her order his drink and food. Play up the young naive actor who’s hoping he’s just about to take Broadway by storm.

“Are you sure?” Francesca asks as the waiter finishes noting down Francesca’s order.

“Your taste is impeccable elsewhere,” Sam replies, purposefully letting his eyes roam over Francesca and then returning his gaze to her face. “I trust your judgement.”

A blush suffuses Francesca’s cheeks and she looks to their waiter. “My companion will have the winter salad and the wild striped bass. And could we please get a bottle of the 1995 Nuits-St-Georges? Thank you.”

The waiter leaves.

A shoed foot begins to stroke the inside of Sam’s leg and he looks to Francesca, keeping his expression coy and gentle. Attempting to make himself seem less dangerous than he actually is. In researching the deaths, neither brother had managed to discover why the shapeshifter had been doing what she was doing. Bar all the vics being aspiring actors or actresses, they couldn’t pin any reasoning behind the monster’s actions.

 _The deaths are all very organized kills_ , Sam ponders, now faking his enjoyment of Francesca’s flirtations _,_ as he draws upon his own small fascination with serial killers. The only reason Dean and he were looking into the deaths was because of the victims seemingly walking and talking after the coroner had placed the times of their deaths. _She’s placing herself in their shoes, believing herself unable to live this life as herself_.

 _And with a face that can never be her own, perhaps unable to know her own self anymore… She takes on the faces of strangers so she can live that life briefly, through others._ The wine is brought over and poured, Sam picks up his glass and clinks it against Francesca’s before pretending to take a sip. _She keeps hold of Francesca’s life, one to return to, because someone who’s twice widowed in this industry… makes sense she’d have connections but not always be in touch, that she would have time away. This guise allows her to draw her victims to her as nee—_

“How’s the wine?” Francesca asks, snapping Sam away from his thoughts.

“Invigorating,” Sam replies. _But she doesn’t stick with one person that isn’t Francesca, because she enjoys this. Enjoys the hunt and the kill_. Sam grimaces as he imagines what it would be like to saying this out loud in Dean’s company.

“Thomas, are you okay?” Francesca asks, using Sam’s cover name.

“Oh, I was thinking what my b—friend, would think of me having lunch here with you. I didn’t tell him I blew him off for you today,” Sam lies.

“And what would your friend think?”

“He’d be incredibly envious of our lunchtime rendezvous.” Sam suggestively licks his lips, keeping to this role.

Almost all of the previous victims had been taken somewhere secluded to be killed and some had engaged in sexual activity prior to their death. Sam didn’t need gourmet Norwegian food, he needed to accelerate Francesca’s desire so that she took him to a killspace.

Their first courses are brought over and just as Sam is about to take a fork to his winter salad, toes press against his crotch. Francesca has shed her shoe and is feeling Sam up with her toes.

Letting out a long breath, Sam smiles at Francesca. “Maybe we should forget our food and move onto dessert?”

“What a fine idea, Thomas. Oh, Matias, could we have the check please?”

***

The hotel door closes behind Sam. Francesca stands on the opposite side of the room drinking him in. It’s not the Ritz, just some small, no name place with clean sheets. Limited security. Staff who don’t ask for ID if you pay in cash more than the room is worth. And Dean’s on his way.

Sam’s not planning on being a victim number seven.

“I think you’re wearing too many clothes, Thomas. Let me help you with that.” Francesca steps towards Sam. Hunter instincts kicking in, Sam pulls his silver dagger from his jacket pocket and throws into Francesca’s chest, puncturing her heart. Her body thuds to the floor, an unuttered scream on her lips.

A quick clean simple kill. Sam steps over to the shapeshifter and pulls the blade from her chest, wiping the blood on her clothes before stowing it in his jacket once more. Pulling a neatly folded handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit, Sam heads over to the door and wipes the inner handle before opening it. Stepping out of the room, he does the same to the outer handle. He touches no other surfaces in the hotel and makes his way out through a back exit.

The Impala is waiting for him in an alleyway. Dean strumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

Pulling the front passenger door open, Sam climbs in and waits for Dean to pull out a silver blade and test him. There’s no talk as Dean does what is necessary, no jokes. Nothing until he’s sure his brother is his brother.

Sam passes and removes his glasses.

“Shapeshifter’s dead, I take it?” Dean asks casually as he stows his blade and gets the Impala moving.

“Yes.” Sam goes to put his hand through his hair and then stops, remembering the oil slicking it back. “Hey, can we go get some lunch?” Sam asks, looking over at his brother who seems a little more wound up than usual.

“What the date part of this didn’t actually happen?” Dean looks over, confusion on his face.

“The food part didn’t happen.” Sam pulls off his suit jacket and tie.

“Okay, some real food coming right up.”

Right up becomes an hour later, because they can’t stay in New York City. Dean keeps Sam going by handing him some beef jerky. Fingers brushing Sam’s when he gives him the jerky.

***

The roadside diner’s just finished with its lunchtime crowd, but a few regulars remain. Sam comes out of the men’s restroom, suit bagged up, dressed normally in jeans and plaid, though his hair is still slicked back. He takes a seat opposite Dean in a booth and gratefully accepts a cup of coffee from a waitress before asking for a cheeseburger and fries.

That gets Sam a raised eyebrow from Dean. “You feeling okay there?”

“I’m just not in the mood for salad right now.”

Dean’s order is put down in front of him. Bacon and double cheese burger with a large pile of fries. “So what happened back there?”

Now that Sam’s out of that space, able to use the distance, he takes a deep breath and looks to Dean, realizes that he maybe didn’t have to go so far to get the job done. But he’d wanted it over as fast as possible.

“Oh, well, apart from her straddling my lap in the back of her car? And her foot doing more than footsie in the restaurant? Not much. Surprising lack of career talk.” Sam stirs some sugar into his coffee and misses the angry frown on Dean’s face. “The moment I suggested we go straight to dessert? Yeah… I played my part, Dean.”

Sam looks up as Dean gets out of his seat and slides in next to Sam, shielding him. Protecting him.

Unable to meet Dean’s eyes, Sam pulls their father’s cufflinks out of the pocket of his jeans. “T—thanks for lending me these. Was able to confirm she was shifter without drawing too much suspicion.” Sam puts them down on the table.

Dean’s fingers brush Sam’s as he picks up the cufflinks. “You’re not okay.”

“I just… I can’t even remember the last time I went on an actual date. It would have been with Jess, but,” Sam shrugs his shoulders, “I don’t remember it. Now the last date I’ve been on was with some serial killing shapeshifter and—”

“Hey,” Dean calls to a passing waitress, “can we get one of your giant vanilla malts here, two straws?”

“Sure thing honey. With cream and a cherry?”

“With cream and a cherry.”

“Sure thing sugar,” the waitress replies and Dean flashes her one of his winning smiles. The waitress heads off to deal with their order.

Dean turns back to Sam. “Forget about the case. We’re here now,” Sam’s food is put on the table by another server and Dean steals a fry even though he has his own, “and… we’re gonna eat our lunch and share a malt.”

Taking in the way Dean’s smiling at him, a smile that goes all the way to his perfect green eyes, Sam nods. “Okay, we can… we can do that.” And part of Sam wants to point out that this sounds an awful lot like a date at this point.

Point it out... but Sam knows it’ll shatter whatever spell has settled over the two of them. So Sam doesn’t say it. He slowly eats his burger and fries. Presses his leg against Dean’s when Dean presses against him. Shares the shake and gets cream on his nose, which Dean wipes away with a finger and then sucks off.

***

Pushing through the following week, Sam can’t help noticing the little things. Like Dean buying Sam’s preferred brand of beer. Or how Sam’s suddenly got control over the TV in their motel rooms. How Dean’s reassuring back slaps are now him gripping Sam’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. Or how during one night when they had to sleep in Baby and he half wakes from nightmares, Dean’s climbing into the back and pulling him into a hug. Soft voice and gentle hands helping Sam drift back to sleep.

Sam’s a little confused about how he should feel about that last one, but as they finally arrive at a motel with hot running water, he tries to get his mind on the case. There’s a haunted Italian restaurant in this small Illinois town and they’re handling it as a favor to another hunter who’s indisposed elsewhere.

Nabbing the shower first, Sam tries to keep it short, but goosebumps cover his skin as he thinks back on the night before in the car. _It felt good_ , Sam realizes and tries to ignore the blood pooling in his length. He finishes soaping up and rinses himself off and washes his hair more quickly that he normally would. Not having any clothes in the bathroom, means he has to hide his semi with his towel as he makes his way back into the main room.

If Dean notices anything is up he doesn’t say and heads into the bathroom to wash himself. And is it Sam’s imagination that Dean’s eyes do flick over his bear torso for a moment? Shaking his head clear, Sam sets about drying himself off and getting dressed.

Getting into his usual fake Fed attire, Sam’s just tying his tie when Dean comes out of the bathroom, towel around his hips. Sam looks up from the knot he’s made. Slightly tanned skin, more muscle definition than before Sam left for college. It takes him a moment to register that he’s checking his brother out.

Turning his gaze away, Sam blushes and finishes sorting his tie. A million arguments are exploding into his mind, telling him to cut it out. To keep a lid on it. But Sam’s not sure he can for much longer.

“Not gonna need that,” Dean says casually as he walks into Sam’s peripheral. There’s no sign that Dean is aware that Sam was checking him out.

“What, the tie?” Sam asks hands still on the knot.

“Yeah, actually… Dress like an annoying college kid who hardly ever takes his nose out of his books, except he’s managed to snag a hot date.” Dean jokes, but as Sam turns to him he can see a small glimmer of something— _hope?_ —in his eyes.

“I do have plenty of practice with that look,” Sam says, taking his tie off and unbuttoning his white shirt.

***

“So what’s the deal with this haunting?” Sam asks as Dean drives over to the restaurant. He feels a little over dressed in a v-neck t-shirt and sweater, plus his best pair of jeans. Dean’s wearing a blue dress shirt, cord tailored jacket and his own pair of best jeans. For once Dean hasn’t put any product in his hair.

“Well, a Gerald Bates was unlawfully killed in Amato’s 20 years ago and now he’s making his presence known. Nothing major so far, but cold spots, lights flickering. Doesn’t make for a cosy dining experience.”

“Bates was cremated, wasn’t he?”

“Bingo. And his personal effects are scattered to the four corners.”

Sam realizes what this means. “There’s a bit of Bates left at Amato’s… Ewww.”

“Yeah, well, forget ewww for now. We need to find the… glob of whatever was Bates, torch it and if we’re lucky, get a free lunch.”

Sam gives Dean an incredulous look. “You’re happy to eat at a place that hasn’t managed to clean away a piece of dead guy after 20 years?”

Shrugging, Dean pulls off the road and drives into the parking lot beside the quaint building that houses Amato’s. “Bates was killed in the men’s restroom. I see no issue here.”

***

There’s very few times that Sam will insist on wearing latex gloves, but as he combs through the men’s restroom at Amato’s he is thankful for them. It’s not visibly unclean, but knowing that a piece of a dead man might still be there after 20 years? His skin is crawling.

Outside the restroom door, there’s audible mutterings of the family that owns and runs the restaurant. The owners know why Sam and Dean are here, but Sam’s wondering why they’re working such a simple case together.

A casual look over all the surfaces in the room brings up nothing. According to the original police report on Bates’ murder, the scene had been bloody. His murderer, a jealous ex of a local woman, had committed suicide not long after.

Sam takes in the basins lining one wall. He pulls a small flashlight from his jeans, turns it on and crouches down beside them, taking in the pipes underneath. There’s nothing of note until one stretch of copper pipe catches his attention. It’s a dark brown smudge along one section of pipe. Blood. A finger’s length wide.

“Dean, I think I’ve got something.”

Dean hunkers down beside Sam and takes in what the flashlight shows. “I’ll get the water turned off. We’ll remove that section of pipe and do the usual.”

Ten minutes later, the half-foot length of pipe is out the back beside the trash, Dean’s covering it in lighter fluid while Sam shakes salt down on it. Bates comes into an indistinct view just as Dean drops a match on the pipe, a ghostly scream carrying across before he burns up in smoke and glowing ash.

This had been the simplest haunting they’d dealt with in a long time and Sam can’t quite believe it as they head into the restaurant. Taking a seat in a secluded, circular booth to the back of the dining area, Sam can’t help noticing the way Dean is tapping his right foot. Normally they’d head straight to a bar and blow off some steam. Usually Dean would find some local woman and take her to bed. Sam was well aware of Dean’s post hunt rituals. And none of that was happening here as they order whatever they want from the menu.

The free lunch is real, but the nervousness rolling off of Dean? It seems so unlike his brother, because he’s rarely this tense. _It’s like that night back at Stanford_ , Sam thinks to himself, remembering the uncertainty that had been written all over Dean back in his apartment. Their dad’s still missing, but there’s more to Dean wanting him along even now.

And as Sam catches Dean looking at him across their table, steam rising from Dean’s plate of lasagna, he gives Dean a questioning look.

“What? I got sauce on my face?” Dean reaches up a hand and Sam shakes his head.

“No, just,” Sam digs his fork into his mushroom ravioli in Alfredo sauce, “it’s… ah, forget it.” Sam spears a piece of ravioli on his fork and pops it into his mouth. _I’m imagining this._

The table’s not huge and Sam finds himself stretching his legs out underneath it. Dean’s legs brush his own and he looks up to his brother. No one’s said the word date, but now as Sam takes in a look of shy hopefulness on Dean’s face: Sam realizes that’s what this is. A lunch date. _An actual lunch date_.

Swallowing, Sam slides from his seat and around to where Dean is sitting. “Dean,” Sam whispers.

Dean’s trembling and it’s almost imperceptible, but Sam can see it. Slowly, Sam reaches out and takes Dean’s fork from his hand and sets it down on the table. Pools of forest green pull Sam in and threaten to drown him as Dean leans in towards him.

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, breath ghosting against Sam’s face. But Dean doesn’t close the distance. _He can’t make this choice for me_.

Finding it hard to keep his breath steady, Sam checks his peripheral vision to be sure no one’s watching them. They’re alone, the family having retired to other parts of the restaurant.

Bringing his lips to Dean’s, Sam closes his eyes and feels Dean tense against him. Rather than pulling away, Sam stays there, lips pliable and warm against Dean’s. Several heartbeats and then Dean’s kissing back, lips moving against Sam’s. Snuffing out every thought that doesn’t reflect how right this feels to him, Sam decides it’s like something is slotting into place. Before he was lost and now he is found.

Reaching a hand up to Dean’s cheek, Sam cups Dean’s face and then breaks the kiss. “Do you… do you want to leave?” Sam asks, catching his breath.

Dean grinds his jaw a little as he thinks. “Food first…”

“Then we’ll go back to the motel.”

Dean nods and lets Sam slide his plate of food round so they’re sat side-by-side as they finish their meals. Elbows knocking into each other, legs rubbing against each other. It’s electric and desperate, eating their food purely for decorum. Despite the food, Sam feels light-headed. He wants the meal to continue but be over at the same time, worrying that Dean will put out the fire that he’s helped start.

***

Sam’s first in the motel room, body tensing, worrying he’s read everything wrong. Turning to Dean just as his brother closes the door, Sam gazes at Dean as they both take nervous breaths.

No one says anything, so Sam inches towards Dean. The space between them closes and Dean’s hands are suddenly on Sam’s face, on his neck, on his chest, on his hips, on his ass—all as they kiss, panting through their noses. Sam returns Dean’s touches in kind and tastes the tangy sauce of Dean’s lunch. Savours the hint of beer.

Dean fills his senses and Sam’s world falls away as they collapse as a pile of writhing limbs on Dean’s bed. Dean’s on top. Calloused fingers find their way under Sam’s sweater and shirt, making Sam pant into Dean’s mouth. Tight friction teases Sam and he snakes a hand between them, fumbling to get their jeans open.

Realizing what Sam’s trying to do, Dean scrambles up onto his knees and gazes down at Sam. He licks his lips. “You sure?”

Sam nods. “Yes.”

He can see the shyness steal over Dean, see him hesitate. Sitting up, Sam grasps Dean’s hands and brings them to the hem of his sweater and shirt. It’s Dean who pulls his clothes over his head, making Sam gasp at the rush of cool air that hits his warm skin.

Reaching up, Sam unbuttons Dean’s dress shirt, and then slips it and his cord jacket off his shoulders. They stare at each other, taking in their exposed torsos and Sam can’t believe the beauty that’s been revealed to him. Given.

Confidence seeming to return, Dean starts with Sam’s jeans and soon they’re both down to their boxers. Dean gently pushes Sam back down on the bed and their lips lightly caress, hands mirroring their mouths as they explore each other’s bodies.

Sam almost cries when Dean’s lips leave his again, but he doesn’t, because Dean’s found his hardness. Dean slides his hand under the band of Sam’s boxers and grips him firmly, thumb teasing over his slit and rubbing into his tip the pre-come that’s gathered. Sam’s body arches with the touch.

“Do you want this?” Dean asks as he strokes Sam.

Dizzy from Dean’s touch, it takes Sam a moment to understand what Dean’s asking. “I want this… I want you… please, Dean,” Sam begs.

And just when Sam is expecting Dean to return to kisses, he pulls Sam’s boxers off. Watching Dean, Sam can’t quite believe what he’s seeing as Dean grips the base of his cock, closes his eyes and then slides his mouth around it. Warm and moist, tongue swirling this way and that, Sam grips onto the bed covers as Dean works him over with his mouth.

“Fuck, Dean!” Sam cries, resisting the urge to fuck up into his brother’s mouth. Seeming to feel Sam’s need, Dean holds Sam’s hips down with his free hand continues to bob on Sam’s cock. Speed gathering. There’s no way that Sam is going to last much longer.

Stretching a hand down to Dean’s head, Sam grips his soft hair. Not forcibly, but just so he can run his hands through it, show Dean how much he appreciates what he’s doing. At some point he starts babbling.

“Since I was 16, Dean… Realized I wanted you. Needed to be with you,” Sam confesses, orgasm building. “I’m sorry, Dean. Sorry.” Sam doesn’t say what for, but Dean hums around his cock, opens his eyes and locks his gaze with Sam’s—Dean knows what he’s sorry for. _Sorry for leaving. Sorry for staying away._

Dean starts moving his fist with his mouth and Sam moans, “Dean… gonnna come. Dean!” Sam shouts and Dean doesn’t pull off his cock and stays there as the rush of orgasm—of elation—hits Sam and whites his vision out.

The lapping of Dean’s tongue over his sensitive head brings Sam round and he has to gently pull Dean back to him. He kisses his brother and tastes himself.

“Since you were 16?” Dean asks as they lean their foreheads together and catch their breath.

“Mmm-hmm.” Sam’s fumbling to pull Dean’s boxers down, but he manages it and then shifts them onto their sides so they’re facing each other, Sam’s arm under Dean and pulling him close. Dean slots a leg between Sam’s thighs.

Spitting onto his hand, Sam finds Dean’s hard and leaking length. Gripping Dean just the right side of tight, Sam starts to stroke his older brother, peppering his jaw with kisses as he goes.

“Wasted so much time,” Dean pants, hips working with Sam. “If I’d known, I’d have come for you sooner.”

“Sssh, doesn’t matter now,” Sam says before stealing Dean’s breath again as he licks his way into Dean’s mouth.

Eight years of denial and longing are embedded into those kisses. Into the gasps and moans Dean sings into Sam’s mouth. Sweet and wanted. So very wanted and Sam won’t allow himself to doubt this now, because he can’t. He never can.

Letting Dean breathe as his hand speeds up, Sam can’t help it when he finds the flesh of Dean’s neck in his mouth and he bites. He sucks hard and long, and it’s as Sam marks his brother, marks Dean, that the rush of release hits Dean.

“Fuck, Sam!” Dean cries out and Sam feels the warmth of Dean’s come spurting onto his skin and into his hand. Hips jerking as he rides the wave of his pleasure.

Gulping huge lungfuls of air, Dean pulls Sam against him as much as he can, uncaring of the stickiness between them. Featherlight kisses are brushed over Sam’s face and Dean whispers something he can’t quite hear.

“Dean?” Sam asks, worried something’s wrong.

Halting, Dean swims into view and pleads with his eyes. Unable to say the words, but Sam knows what he’s asking.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam reassures. “I’m not leaving you.”

A smile lights up Dean’s eyes and he nuzzles at Sam’s neck. “Thank you,” Dean says into Sam’s skin.

They hold each other until they fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Zeryx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeryx) for helping me wrap my head around this.
> 
> If you've enjoyed reading this, please do leave kudos and comment.


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